


Indulgences and Prods of Pain

by Diary



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Bechdel Test Fail, Canon Disabled Character, Conversations, Flirting, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, POV Brienne of Tarth, POV Female Character, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6006607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re crying,” he flatly points out. “You’re crying, you don’t know the castle, and you plan to storm it with a bread knife and take Sansa.”  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulgences and Prods of Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Game of Thrones.

As firmly she can manage, Brienne insists, “This is not appropriate. You have your own bed.”

She doesn’t point out his bed is longer than the one Bolton gave her. If the insult was merely towards her, it would be easier to brush aside, but with this and the tough, uncut steak, she knows he’s worse than most who would mistreat her and is already dreading being left alone in the castle, especially with Locke running about.

Of course, the kingslayer (saviour of countless, she reminds herself) shrugs and makes himself more comfortable in the bed. “It’s more fit for a beast like you, anyways.”

“Oh,” she says.

Unfortunately, she can feel the blush spreading across her face.

She almost asks why he didn’t simply say he wanted to trade, but she imagines most people would have enough sense to realise it.

“Unless, of course, you want to take me up on my offer,” he says. “I can’t beat you right now, no, but give me a few months training.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I told you I’m strong enough.”

It takes a minute before her brain finally goes back to one of the first days of her escorting him.

“Still not interested,” she snaps.

“Because of my hand?”

“What would that matter,” she asks.

It’d be best to excuse myself, she realises.

Realising this doesn’t keep her from saying, “I suppose there’s an honour in what you did to the mad king. But you’re still a cruel, murdering man who’s harmed children and the innocent and the weak.”

“What, nothing about me and Cersei,” he inquires in his annoyingly sarcastic tone.

“I suppose that doesn’t make you or her any different from some of the past Targaryens. They weren’t all like the mad king. I’ve heard little about the queen and have never met her.”

Suddenly, he sighs.

It’s a heavy, heart-breaking sound.

Quickly, she puts her wrist against his forehead. “Should I go get-”

He bats her hand away.  

“I’d be willing to beat that Tyrell girl is still a virgin,” he says. “And you don’t strike me as someone who would judge a man too harshly for lying with another. In fact, given your attitude towards my sister and I, I think you might just be- So, you knew about Renly and Loras, then. You just don’t want people to make snide comments. Tell me, when Loras didn’t share his tent, did you sleep in it and guard him?”

“Yes,” she hesitantly answers. “I was a member of his kingsguard. And when Ser Loras didn’t protect him at night, I always had the honour.”

She’s sure, if her king hadn’t preferred men, everyone, including Queen Margarery, would have had something to say, and even her ugliness wouldn’t have shielded her. As it was, if anyone besides her father objected, she never heard a word.

“I imagine there are plenty of people in this castle who’d love to do me great harm, and I suppose one or two of them might be smart or lucky enough to succeed. Stay with me,” he says.

“Alright."

He looks up in surprise.

She can’t see why he should be. She couldn’t protect his hand, but before they were captured, hadn’t she made every effort to see he wasn’t harmed or sickened by the journey?

Though she will admit she was a bit rough in how she pushed him around, she hadn’t ever drawn her sword on him until he made it a matter of defence for her to do so.

“What in the seven are you doing?”

Puzzled, she looks over from the chair she’s covering with the horrid dress. “You have all the blankets and pillows."

“We can share,” he says.

She’s not quite sure how to interpret his tone, but she finds it insulting all the same.

As for the idea itself-

“And now, we’re back to you being inappropriate.”

“I won’t try anything,” he says. “I’m cold, uneasy, and my hand that I no longer have hurts. Lay down next to me until I fall asleep. I imagine you’re warm enough, and maybe, feeling another person press against me will distract me.”

Desperately wishing she would stop blushing, she slowly makes her way over and half-hopes he’ll either fall asleep or declare this to be another jape before she gets there.

Once she’s on the bed and covered up, he rolls slightly and wraps against her.

She almost protests, but when his one hand stays underneath her back and the arm containing the stump drapes loosely around her waist, she softly exhales.

The bed is almost too short for her and not quite big enough for two people of their statures, but she imagines he’d object to having to get up and go to the other room.  

“I’ve never told anyone what really happened with Aerys,” he whispers.

“Not even your sister or brother? Your father?”

“No. Tyrion- he was young and- still incredibly idealistic when it happened. All,” he takes a shallow breath, “all he said to me was, ‘I’m sure you had an honourable reason, sweet brother. And if you ever want to tell me-’ I came close several times, but I could never bring myself to. All my father cared about was how this would affect the family legacy. And Cercei-”

He stops, and she eventually realises he isn’t going to continue.

“Thank you,” she mutters. “For telling me.”

He shifts around a bit until his chin is resting on her shoulder, and when he speaks, his breath tickles her neck. “Tell me something about you you’ve never told anyone, my lady. After all, it’s only fair.”

“I once accidentally ruined my septa’s favourite gown. I think she suspected, but she never accused me, and I never confessed.”

He gives a slight laugh.

Then, the mood shifts so quickly she’s left bewildered.

“I’m not defending what I did,” he quietly informs her. “Brandon Stark. I know it was wrong, and I know what I did to him and Alton means I’ll never escape the seven hells. But I don’t apologise for it. It was him or my sister, her children, and possibly, even my little brother. Oh, my father would have come out not too badly scathed, if he had to see us all dead. If it meant protecting them, I would have let Aerys burn the seven kingdoms down.”

Shuddering, she closes her eyes.

He moves away slightly but doesn’t completely break contact.

For all the fact he crippled an innocent, defenceless child and betrayed and slew his own blood, she can’t fully hate him as she once did. He shouldn’t have been with his sister in the first place, but he’s likely right, the two princes and the princess might have been harmed or even killed.

If it came to her father, while the thought makes her stomach churn bitterly, she can’t say for sure she wouldn’t turn on a young, innocent child if it were the only way she knew to protect him.

“Perhaps, we’ll see each other after death,” she finds herself announcing. She tells him of the shadow containing Stannis’s face killing Renly. “I held him as he lay dead, and guards ran in. They were innocent. They served him just as loyally as I did. I don’t know what possessed me. What I was thinking. I could have let them take me, and I could have explained. I could have begged the Tyrells to listen, and if need be, I could have faced my death with a clear conscience. Instead, I murdered them.”

Covering her eyes, she continues, “And then, I did it again with those men we met. They were a threat and proudly guilty of terrible things, but I could have handled things differently.”

She feels soft, tentative movement against her back and realises he’s tracing it with his fingers.

“You did fancy Renly,” he states. “Don’t deny it. Fine, you think he would have made a wonderful king. But you also fancied him. Why?”

She considers not answering.

He shuffles closer to her.

“When I was young, my father held a ball. I’m his only living child, and so, he wanted to make a good match for me. It didn’t work out very well. Boys can be cruel. But he wasn’t. He willingly danced with me and spoke kindly to me. After we danced, we sat in the corner and drank lemon tea with honey while we talked. Or mostly, he talked about how his brothers could be unkind.”

She can’t see him in the dark, but she has the strangest feeling he’s smiling.

“He was a handful, but there were times I was very fond of him. Did he ever mention me?”

“Not that I recall,” she answers. “Isn’t your arm getting crushed?”

“No. Only living child? I hope you know I didn’t mean any insult when I asked if you had brothers or sisters.”

“You would have turned it into an insult if I’d answered,” she points out, “but yes, I know that.”

He scoffs. “I won’t, now.”

You might in the future, she thinks.

“Galladon,” she says. “My brother. He died when he was eight. I was only a young baby, but sometimes, I have dreams of a golden-haired, brown-eyed boy standing above me and smiling brightly accompanied with soft words.”

She hesitates.

“I had these dreams before I ever saw a portrait of him. When I saw the portrait, I immediately recognised the boy from my dreams. The other two were girls. If they were named, it wasn’t publicly announced, and I’ve never asked my father. One of them, I have vague memories of being sat in my lap. She had the brown eyes of my father and brother and went three days after my mother did. The other I have absolutely no memory of. Father tells me she also inherited our mother’s blue eyes.”

“Your father loves you,” he says. “Do you love him, my lady?”

“Of course. I’d die or kill for him. Do you not love your father?”

“Yes,” he answers. “I- I can lie. Well, obviously, I can lie. And I’ve greatly harmed Tyrion by doing so. But- I don’t. I’d tell Cersei anything, if she wanted to hear it. You and I, we might yet again find ourselves on opposite sides, Brienne of Tarth. And much as I don’t like it, I might use your words tonight against you. However, with all sincerity, let me tell you how much I admire your honesty. Even with the love and loyalty we Lannisters are supposed to have towards one another, there’s too little of that.”

“I’m sorry,” she offers. “Your loyalty to them nevertheless has an admirableness to it. Here, I’m going to roll over.”

Sitting up, she presses against the wall.

She tries to decide whether she wants to lie on her side or stomach.

Realising he might stick his arm under or on her stomach if she lies stomach-down or on her right side, she makes herself as comfortable as possible on her left side.

“Alright,” she tells him.

He immediately wraps back around her and settles his fingers back on her back.

“I’m really not sure this position- We’re an unwed man and woman, and besides, you have pledged your heart, if not taken any official vows, to another woman.”

“Warm,” is his only response.

She supposes she should be glad he isn’t turning to japes.

“I don’t know how Cersei is going to react to my missing hand,” he suddenly blurts out.

Uncomfortable, she suggests, “She might be furious and sad on your behalf, but she will not think badly of you.”

“Oh, and from since you got into bed, you’ve suddenly met her or heard enough from reliable sources to form such a judgement.”

“No, but- I don’t expect your sister or any woman to do the same, but if someone hurt my father in such a way, I would kill them. They’d deserve it, just as my father would deserve my patience while he readjusted and help when it came to the things he simply couldn’t do anymore. I’d still love and respect him more than anyone.”

“And,” she continues, “yes, I’ve made it so that my hand in marriage requires a man beating me. But if I loved a man and married him out of that, he would not be less in my eyes. He would still be the man I deemed worthy of my heart and bed.”

He sighs. “You and my sister are two vastly different people.”

Hoping to end or, at least, redirect the conversation, she tells him, “Everyone would rather have gold than sapphires. I don’t know why you were compelled to tell Locke about non-existent mines.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

She’s suddenly acutely aware of the stump resting on her hip. “My point stands.”

Huffing, he pinches her back.

She kicks his ankle in response.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve been around gold all my life. I’m not sure I’ve ever held a real sapphire or seen one outside of pictures. Mostly, I was thinking of your eyes when I said that.”

She’s sure there’s a proper response.

Since she has absolutely no idea what it might be, she opts for, “Renly’s kingsguard was called the Rainbow Guard. Ser Loras was the Lord Commander. My colour was blue. Renly had hopes to give it to Ser Barristan, but when he wrapped it around my shoulders, he said, ‘Just as well, my lady. Obviously, the gods marked it for you and you for it when they gave you eyes matching the waters surrounding your father’s island and of one of the strongest jewels to be found.’”

“You truly loved him,” he remarks in an oddly flat voice.

She shrugs. “I knew he’d never want me. What man would? But he did respect me, and he did care for me. I’d rather fight for a man like that, who I believed in, than marry one I didn’t know and who could barely stand to conceive children with me. I feel badly for my father, for Tarth may never have any more heirs, but I’m deserving of love, however unconventional it might be, where I can find it, and I truly believe Renly would have made a place for me in his court.”

The thought of the children he’ll never have makes her heart hurt.

She’s sure he and Queen Margarey would have lain together eventually. He would have been a wonderful father, she knows, and she can see herself watching them grow and protecting them.

Most children just past babyhood quite like her, she’s discovered. They don’t know she’s ugly, and thus, her ugliness doesn’t make her a figure of fear. She likes to hope, once the young princes and princesses grew older, they’d come to see her as a trustworthy, kind figure who’d never let any harm come to them.

Ser Jaime (Jaime?) moves closer and tightens his grip. “Sleep,” he yawns. “Stay. Be here in the morning. Please,” he says in an almost pleading tone.

After all the words they’ve exchanged, she knows there’s little reason she shouldn’t. “I will,” she promises. “But if you knock me off the bed,” she warns.

Chuckling, she mumbles something, but before she can get him to repeat himself, he’s buried his nose against her ear and his breathing has evened out.

She adjusts the blankets some, gently moves his right arm and rests the stump on the pillow, and eases his left arm out from under her and lets it rest between them. She’s slightly worried it will end up against her chest, but he’s a man of honour in such matters, and she’d rather not be further responsible for harm to his arm and remaining hand.

Sleep quickly overtakes her.

…

“Ow!”

She’s sure, if she were in a more rational frame of mind, she’d not be holding an unarmed, one-handed man by the hair while repeatedly kicking his chins and poking him in the stomach.

One of the servants clears his throat, “Lady Tarth, we- we have orders to get Ser Jaime back to King’s Landing unharmed. Or, er-”

She lets him go.

He promptly reaches over and tries to pinch her ear.

“Fool,” she declares. “What were you thinking?”

Putting a horse between them, he shrugs and answers in a careless tone, “I felt like rescuing a maiden.”

He’d jumped into the bear pit Locke had put her in, physically moved her behind him, and then, gotten her up to safety.

He’d done so without weapons and while still weak from the loss of his hand.

“It doesn’t count,” she informs him. “If you hadn’t made up that absurd claim about Tarth containing sapphire mines-”

“And if you’d listened to me and let them have what they wanted, I wouldn’t have had to,” he retorts.

Trying to quell her fury, she snaps, “You could have tried to convince them to kill me instead. That would have avoided this whole bloody mess.”

He makes an ugly noise. “Ungrateful wench. Can’t imagine why-”

“Oh, yes,” she interrupts. “Strike with your words, _oathbreaker_.”

He sputters, and she tries to ignore the wounded look in his eyes.

“You promised me you’d see the Stark girls safely returned to Lady Catelyn. If you gotten yourself killed just now, both of our oaths would-”

“And what of you, agreeing to stay behind,” he challenges. “I would have- if you’d but asked.”

“I trusted you to avoid all danger as best you could and hastily get to King’s Landing to fulfil your promise to both Lady Catelyn and I. That is more important than my freedom and even my life!”

The servant again makes a nervous noise. “Ser. My lady. Speaking of going-”

After several miles of walking as he rides, she finally takes a deep breath. “I’m not sure there are the words to apologise with. I do owe you my life.”

He opens his mouth several times. “Catelyn Stark respects and cares for you. You don’t hate me, anymore, but even when you did, you treated me honourably. You’re right, you do deserve any love you can find.”

“While that’s kind of you to say-”

“There’s no kindness to it. A Lannister always pays his debts. Because of your honour, I’m going home to my loved ones. It’s only right I try to give you back to someone who can hopefully provide the same.”

Of course, your sister will love you as much as always, she thinks. More, even. For all your sins, for all your cruelness, for all your good looks that still remain despite all you’ve been through, for all your pride and the fear you both thrust proudly and hide deeply, at your core, you are a man who truly understands the preciousness of love.

She will not let herself get hurt the way she was with Renly.

“No, I don’t hate you,” she agrees. “I’d have just rather not been put through the fear we’d both die in that pit. I’m sorry for my harsh reaction.”

He shrugs. “If I forgive you, will you promise to never stop lusting and pining after me?”

She inwardly curses her flaming face. “I don’t require your forgiveness. And if I should ever start doing either, no one need order me to fall on my sword. I’ll do it gladly.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I could happily help you conceive children if it meant looking into your eyes, and based on how you’ve looked at me on occasion, I wager there’s a part of me that could be of similar motivation to you.”

He winks, and she looks determinedly ahead.

“In all seriousness, could I ask a favour, my lady?”

She chances a wary look at him.

“I’m going to have to learn how to write with my left hand. When you return the Stark girls, will you send me a letter in red ink and wait for my reply?”

“Why red,” she inquires.

He looks almost embarrassed. “When I was young, I had terrible trouble reading. After nearly a year of my father forcing me to practise for hours every morning, I got to where I could. One thing that we discovered was that I had the easiest time remembering things when they were written in red.”

“I’ll send you a raven,” she promises. “If I write back asking for clarification on something you wrote, know that I’m not mocking you.”

“Thank you.”

…

Grumbling, she grabs her sword and opens the inn door.

She fully wakes when she takes in a kingsguard with a dreadful expression, but then, her eyes catch the stump, and she exhales.

Jaime’s freshly-shaven with his hair cut short, his stump has fresh, clean-bandages, and if not for the look on his face, she’s aware she’d likely have to force herself not to look at him in a way he would gleefully shame her for.

Trying to look past him, she whispers, “What is it?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” she answers. She stands aside. “Is this about Sansa? Arya? Are they well?”

They’d agreed on the way back she’d come to King Joffrey’s wedding (better him on the throne than Stannis, she tries to tell herself- besides, it’s not as if she can in good conscience wish harm on the young blood of Jaime’s.), and he’d discreetly bring the Stark girls to her then.

With the wedding celebrations, it might be days before anyone truly realises the two are gone.

Shutting the door, he abruptly orders, “Give me your sword.”

“What? Why?”

“Please,” he says with dead calmness. “Just trust me, Brienne.”

“You have your own,” she points out.

Nevertheless, she finds herself complying.

Clutching it, he sits down, and she notices he’s sitting in such a way it’d be difficult for her to remove his from him.

He sighs and seems to be having trouble looking at her. “Where do I begin?”

…

Grabbing a knife, she starts to leave.

In a flash, he’s standing between her and the door.

“Brienne, I swear I didn’t know any of this until-”

“Move,” she orders. “I owe you my life, but I place my vows to Lady Catelyn above that. I’ve killed men more innocent than you.”

“You’re crying,” he flatly points out. “You’re crying, you don’t know the castle, and you plan to storm it with a bread knife and take Sansa.”

“Yes.”

She hastily tries to wipe away her tears.

Making a noise of exasperation, he suddenly kneels down and tosses both her sword and his aside. “Stupidly stubborn, so damnably, pathetically honourable pain in my ass, what did I ever do to deserve such a creature as you? Then, go on. I made a vow to Lady Stark, too, and I want to help you fulfil it. But my vow isn’t worth your life. Innocent or not, right or wrong, I place you above Sansa Stark. So, go on, my lady, and spill my blood. It’s the only way I’ll let yours be so pointlessly spilled.”

She wants to scream and beat him senseless.

Instead, she turns away and closes her eyes.

She recites all the prayers she knows.

Lady Catelyn and all of her sons are dead, no one has any clue where Arya is, and Sansa has been forcibly married to Tyrion Lannister.

Apparently, Jaime Lannister truly cares about her, as well.

Calm, she tells herself. Everything must make sense in time.

Calm.

She walks over to the table, sets the knife down, and goes over to Jaime.

She holds her hand out.

After a moment of hesitation, he takes it and allows her to guide him up.

“Your vow is worth my life,” she informs him. “However, I realise that my plan was- not good. It’d likely only end with me dead, Sansa in even more danger, and there’s a chance you’d be blamed. Do you have a better one?”

“Of course, I do,” is his cock-sure response.

She realises, not only shouldn’t she have expected better, she didn’t.

Shaking her head, she sits down.

Carefully picking up both swords, he holds them out so she can take hers.

…

As they walk, she looks at the bundle folded in his arms.

“Explain to me how you sneaking me into the castle now-”

“I’ve told you,” he says. “It’ll be better to take her away after the wedding celebrations.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m wondering what we’re doing _now_.”

“You’ll see.”

Part of her wishes he’d insult her and stop giving her the occasional concerned look as if he’s afraid- she isn’t sure. She’ll fully sob, she’ll decide to ransack the castle until she comes across Sansa, or something she hasn’t even thought of.

Another part of her feels warmth in her heart.

They go outside and stop at a godswood.

He motions for her set the lantern down.

When she does, he carefully shakes out the bundle to reveal what she recognises with a gasp to be a Stark cloak.

“Ned Stark worshipped the old gods,” he quietly tells her. “And this cloak was one of his. Since you were his wife’s sworn sword, it’s only right you put it on and kneel in front of the godswood. Talk to them. When you’re done, we’ll both swear to our gods and his that we’ll work together to get his daughter to safety.”

“Why,” she finds herself asking. “Why would you-”

He drapes the cloak over one of her shoulders and walks away.

Carefully, she puts it on, takes a deep breath, and kneels down.

“I worship the seven.” She gently touches the weirwood. “But I have respect for you, as well. Please, if Eddard Stark or his wife, Catelyn, will hear me, let them. I’m so sorry I failed you, Lady Catelyn. I should have- I’m sorry. My lord, my lady, I swear, I will find some place safe to take your daughter, Sansa, and once I do, I will not rest until I find what has happened to your daughter, Arya. If by some miracle she’s alive, I will take her to Sansa. If not, I will find out who or what took her. I will try to give her as much justice as possible.”

She pauses.

“I won’t ask you to forgive Ser Jaime Lannister for the harm he’s caused you and your family. The fact he’s truly changed doesn’t wipe away what he’s done. However, I ask you grant him any help and protection you can until Sansa is delivered to safety. He sincerely does want to help your daughters and will if given the chance. I swear it.”

Closing her eyes, she listens to the night.

Once her breathing and heart are steady, she opens them, calls out, “Jaime,” and goes to look for him.

He appears near the opening.

“You don’t need to-”

However, he’s already leading her back.

They kneel, and he places his left hand on the godswood. “Will you trust me, my lady? I swear to you, the old gods and new, to Lady Catelyn Stark and all the dead Starks with her, if you place your trust in me, I won’t betray it. I’ll help you get Sansa somewhere safe.”

Placing her hand over his, she nods. “I trust you.”

…

When she wakes up the morning after praying at the godswood, she curses at the memory of her dreams.

“No,” she insists. “No. I have much more important things to do than to want another man who could never want me. No.”

Her body mocks her words by reacting to the image of him invading her mind.

“No.”

…

She wishes she had some idea, any idea, of what she can possibly do.

Someone murdered Joffrey at the boy’s own wedding feast, Tyrion Lannister has been accused, and worse, so has the vanished Sansa Stark.

“Is there anything- Can I do anything?”

He looks over with red-rimmed eyes. “Oh, there’s always something you can do. A little bit of time, I pray you, my lady, for me to figure out where she possibly could have gone.”

Trying not to wince at the words, she tries to work out who he’s talking about.

Is it his sister he’s wanting? Most likely, she decides. Where _would_ the queen go at such a horrible time if she couldn’t bear to face her brother?

Then, it hits her, and however she and he usually interact, she will not snap or utter cruel words.

“You think this is about Sansa? No.”

Inwardly wincing at the fact her tone absolutely refuses to be gentler, she nevertheless continues, “My quest to find her is important, but it can wait. You- I’ve never lost a child. I can’t even truly claim the pain of losing my siblings. Holding Renly doesn’t compare to the pain of holding your child, your firstborn, your son, as he died. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. However, if there’s something I can possibly do to help, tell me. Please.”

He bursts into loud sobs, and before she can truly process, he’s wrapped himself around her even tighter than he did the night in Bolton’s castle.

Gingerly patting his back, she forces herself not to cringe under his weight and urges, “Here, sit down. I won’t let go until you’re ready, I promise, but you need to sit down.”

She traces mindless patterns on his neck and through his hair as he weeps against her.

When he pulls away, she has no clue how little or long time has passed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Forgive me.”

“For what? Mourning your child?”

He sniffles. “Tyrion’s in the dungeon.”

“You don’t think he did it,” she guesses.

She doesn’t, either, although, she’ll admit she hasn’t truly seen enough of him to make such a judgement.

“See. We know each so well,” he says with a small chuckle.

Letting her fingers continue their ministrations, she repeats, “Is there anything I can do?”

He shakes his head.

“He wasn’t a good king. Or a good person, really.”

Shifting slightly, she offers, “When it comes to family, you aren’t supposed to love them only if they’re good. Perhaps the bad shouldn’t be accepted, but I imagine the loss of family is supposed to always hurt. He was yours, and now, not only is he gone, but you saw it happen.”

“Thank you for the cheerful reminder.”

She flinches. “I’m sorry, I don’t know-”

He gently squeezes her fingers. “Brienne. I’m sorry. I- I don’t want to hurt you. I just can’t- How do I deal with this?”

“By remembering I’ve had plenty of practise with cruel words and foolish boys who thought they could overpower me. Whatever words you hurl at me, it isn’t going to stop- I care about you beyond our bond requiring Sansa be found, but that bond is ever-present. You lashing out isn’t going to break it,” she tells him.

Shaking his head, he leans back against her.

…

She’s always wondered why girls were so enamoured with being given clothes.

Now, as she admires the beauty of the sapphire-coloured armour Jaime has given her and how well it fits, she thinks she might understand. Despite it’s lightness and breathability, she can discern how durable it is.

Part of her is sure she really should resist.

He’s given her a sword re-forged from Ned Stark’s sword, and though it’s beauty and strength also takes her breath away (she’s dreamed of Valayrian steel since she was a young girl, and this is better than any of those dreams), she can’t fault his logic it should be used to defend Sansa Stark.  

The armour and horse, though- They agreed he’d help her quest by doing whatever might be necessary once she found Sansa and sent him a coded letter. It isn’t his job to supply her with armour she shudders to even try to imagine the cost of, and though, it’s considerate of him to give her a horse, a simple mule would do rather than the strong, friendly, gleaming white one she’s made friends with over the last few days.

…

She’s relieved when she looks at Tyrion Lannister’s squire, Podrick Payne, waiting for her by the horses. She’s seen him trotting after Tyrion in the past, and with his bumbling, he’s always struck her as an sweet, innocent boy. She thinks he once said something to her, but all she can remember of the exchange is him blushing red, smiling crookedly, and looking down.

Jaime Lannister trying to bribe her into taking someone along for his brother’s sake makes a certain amount of sense.

“It’s chivalry,” he insists. 

She means to continue her protests, because, the last thing she needs is to be responsible for some young man whose practically still a boy with no survival skills and an innocence she doesn’t want to see slowly robbed by the harshness of such a quest, but he moves closer, and she will simply ignore these unwelcome feelings until they go away.

When it comes to Renly, she’ll forgive herself for always hanging onto a little bit of hope. He never had a desire for any woman, and so, in some way, she reasons, she truly had as much of a chance as even the most beautiful.

She’s going to get Sansa Stark to safety, solve the riddle of Arya, and if her itching desire for the man in love with a beautiful woman hasn’t abated by then, she’ll just never meet him in person again until it does.

He nods towards the sword. “They say the best have names. Any ideas?”

“Oathkeeper.”

The look on his face is reward enough for her decision even as it causes a dull ache in her heart.

“Goodbye, Brienne.”

She tells herself to simply leave without any further indulgences and the following prods of pain, and yet, she can’t help looking back at him.


End file.
